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The Wheels on the Bus

     

     As I sat distant from the family, like I usually did, I watched my wife play with our son, the same way she did every night when she got back home. I took tiny, periodic sips of the frozen coffee that was left out on the countertop for at least a few hours now. My wife would never drink cold coffee. She never drank from home either, as she always picked up Starbucks right before and after work. In fact, she was rarely home. She was here to simply eat and sleep: her hours wouldn't permit otherwise.

    From what I could make out from the living room, the two were preparing for show and tell next week. I already knew what Evan would pick: The Wheels on the Bus. Day and night, I would sit there as a hostage, forced to listen to the incessant static of the decades-old radio as it blared out the same tune over and over again.

    "Jesse? Jesse!"

    I turned right to her, my neck titling towards her as rapidly as a bird would.

    "Falling asleep with your eyes open again? Anyways, Evan really wants to present The Wheels on the Bus in class next week, and I was wondering if you'd be able to give him a tour of your workplace tomorrow. So he can get the feels for what he loves, you know?"

    "Mhm sure," I nodded, as I returned to my state of slumber. 

    "The wheels on the bus go round and round, round and round, round and round."

    Round. There was only so much I could tolerate of that word, droning on in the background of my house, slowly creeping its way into the foreground until it rings in my ears, reminding me of what my life has become. Round and round and round.  

***

    Dr. Graham had simply given his archetypal chuckle when I had talked to him about my life.

    "Jesse, you must start looking at the glass half full, not the one half empty. You have a great life in front of you: a great wife, a great kid, a ginormous house... I simply don't see why you need to work two jobs to pay off your student loans. Hell, your wife is a doctor, Jesse. Surely she can pay off your debts for you."

    I sighed and buried my head into my hands. He just didn't get it; he just didn't get me. I mean, charity? Did this man simply think I would let someone else take care of my business? Did he really expect me to get on my knees and beg my wife to pay for me? No. How dare he assume that I, Jesse Eindhoven II, would really le-

    "Jesse, I want you to look at what I've drawn over here. What is it?"

    "A circle."

    "Good. Now tell me, what is a circle?"

    "Round." 

    "Exactly! Perfect, you're doing very well. Now tell me Jesse, what do you think roundness represents?"

    "A cycle."

    "Yes Jesse! It represents a cycle of love, one of compassion! Your life is a cycle of love, buddy! You have so many great people looking after you, and so many who care about you. Who want to see you grow. Why throw it away, Jesse? Why give them the cold shoulder and pretend like it's you against the world? If you want to keep your little circle of love going, Jesse, you must feed into the cycle. You must give, but you also must receive. A cycle of love, Jesse. A cycle of love."

    I stared back at him, my eyes intent on his, observing the excitement that bounced cheek-to-cheek and the hearty smile plastered across his face. It was obvious he wanted me to agree. He wanted me to say Yes doc, I am totally cured now, thank you for the great advice! The longer I stared, the smaller the smile became, until it was replaced by a look of faint confusion. I finally made my move.

    "No. A cycle of despair."

***

    Evan bounced gleefully in his seat as I pulled up into the driveway of the garage, parking in the same spot I usually do. 8:04, the clock said. The same time I usually get here. As I walked toward bus forty-nine, the same one I drive every Saturday morning, Evan gazed up in amazement.

    "Wow, look dad! A real bus, a real bus!"

    "Yes. Now get in."

    Driving through suburban Tucson, I still could never differentiate the houses from one another, even though I drove this same route everyday. The same Pueblo facades and the same artificial lawns. The same artificial people who ignored the plights of others. The ones who treated me as an afterthought and never even looked at me. The ones who couldn't be bothered to grant me a simple "hello, how's your day?" The ones who-

    "Dad, dad, can you play can you play The Wheels on the Bus?"

    "Son, I don't think the other people on here would really like to hea-"

    "Pleaseeeee"

    I groaned and put the CD in, immediately greeted by the distinct voices that haunted me everyday. I tried ignoring it at first, but the voices soon surfaced back to the foreground again, making it too much to simply block out. I couldn't help but to subject myself to the repetition, the monotony...

    "The wheels on the bus go round and round, round and round, round and round."

    Round and round and round. 

    Evan laughed and fell to the floor of the bus, as he sang joyously with the chorus. 

    I cried. 

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